I sit on the restroom floor, my butt going numb. The revolver feels heavy in my pocket, and I pull it out. Its chrome sparks in the overhead fluorescent light. Almost as shiny as my lighter.
I spin the wheel, liking the sound. Then I open it, remove all the bullets. Double-triple-check that the barrel is clear, and dry fire it, aiming at the lock on the door. I’m a good shot with pistols and rifles, shotguns too. My uncle likes guns—something besides fire, beer, and football that firefighters have in common. At least around here.
I pull the trigger again, timing it between breaths, my hand steady. Could I do it? Kill someone?
This isn’t me. I’ve no idea who this is. Not Jesse. Not JohnBoy. Is this who Griffin is? A killer?
Miranda is speaking into my ear. I finally hear her over the roaring in my brain. “Griffin? Talk to me. Are you okay?”
“I’m here.” I spin the wheel again. I can tell by her sudden silence that she can hear it.
“You’re not going to hurt yourself, are you?”
“No. If it was that easy, I’d have done it long ago.”
“Right. You’re right.” Funny, she’s the one who sounds panicked. “Killing yourself isn’t the answer. Neither is that gun. Are you okay to drive?”
“I’m not drunk. Not high.” I don’t know what I am, can’t explain how I feel. What comes after fury, after terror, after you’ve surrendered so much of your soul that you’re empty inside, nothing left?
“I can’t come to you. Will you come to me? Talk to me about this, about what we should do?”
“Are you going to tell me where he is? Who he is?”
“No.” She pauses. “Not until we talk. Face-to-face.” Her voice is a lifeline, crossing time and distance to guide me to safety.
What choice do I have? I grab on to the hope that is Miranda and use her strength to pull myself back onto solid ground.
Finally, I sigh. Rage simmers like a live wire in my veins, but it’s a weary, frustrated rage that I can control.
I climb to my feet and shove the bullets into one pocket, the gun into another. I pull out my notebook and pencil. “Give me your address. I’m on my way.”
• • •
Miranda had just hung up from talking with Griffin when her dad appeared in her open bedroom doorway. She jumped—Mom was at class and Dad was supposed to be at work.
“Dad, what are you doing here? You scared me.” She closed her laptop, trying to look casual.
“Came home early.” He leaned into the room, looking around. “I heard voices.”
She jumped off the bed and gave him a quick hug before heading out into the hall. “I was Skyping with a classmate about our trig assignment. Let me fix you lunch.”
Beyond the hallway she saw a bottle of wine and a bouquet of flowers on the kitchen counter.
“Why are you home early?” she called back over her shoulder, wishing he’d follow her. King’s picture was still on the main screen of her laptop; she hadn’t had a chance to clear it. Not to mention all the other tabs she had open, tracing her steps to get onto the Telenet site and find his personnel profile.
Nothing illegal—well, maybe, sorta, and definitely not exactly the kind of thing her dad would understand. Especially since after she’d left the hospital the last time, she’d promised her parents that she’d give up her obsession, stalking the Creep, and she’d leave it to the police. The first of so many lies she’d lost count.
“Dad? What do you want for lunch?” She turned to face him, the length of the hall separating them. Exactly the wrong length. Too close to hide, too far to reach out to him, guide him away from her secrets. From her lies.
He stared at her as if sighting down the barrel of his gun. His cop stare—very different from the soft, fuzzy expression she usually coaxed from him. His “don’t even try to bullshit me” stare. As if she was some kind of criminal.
Well, technically she was. Kinda. A few bent privacy and cybersecurity violations. All for a good cause.
At least it had been. But now she had Jesse out there with a gun. She’d grown used to thinking of him as Griffin, her imaginary hero, protector, avenger. But it wasn’t Griffin who’d broken down. It wasn’t Griffin who wanted to end things with King right now; it wasn’t Griffin headed over here.
It was Jesse. Scared, desperate, and armed.
And her dad equally armed.
A buzzing filled her head. Her breath caught as possibilities collided. Her dad was trained to deal with emotionally distraught people—but if Jesse lost control here, in his own home, with his daughter present? Would he react as a police officer or a father?
Memories flooded over her: the thud of fists striking flesh, men hauling her dad off the men who’d attacked her mom, cuffing his hands behind him, treating him like a criminal. His eyes blazing with rage. She stared at the apartment’s front door, turned, and looked at her father still in his uniform. Regret and fear throttled her.
What the hell had she done?